


The Bizarre Incident That Must Never Be Talked About Talked About

by Lomonaaeren



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aurors, Crack, F/M, Humor, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 15:35:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomonaaeren/pseuds/Lomonaaeren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has different opinions about what, exactly, happened when Harry became intimate with Draco. If you put them all together, they might even make sense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bizarre Incident That Must Never Be Talked About Talked About

**Author's Note:**

> This is a one-shot written for dysonrules, who requested wallsex and hair-washing, and also gave the prompts: green crystal, lightning, bells, and a sword. I don’t think I could really have written a serious fic with that premise, so here is the bizarreness that came out.

  
From _Harry As I Knew Him: The Early Life and Early Loves of the Man Who Saved the Wizarding World_. By Ginny Weasley, published by Gaping Sybil Press, May 2016.  
  
It’s hard to describe it, even now, even after all these years. I had sensed the coolness falling between us for a long time, like snow between two blazing hearths. More and more, he had his own life. I had mine. I had friends, of course, and now and then I would go in for a fling with some handsome young wizard, but it wasn’t the _same._  
  
And I was convinced that Harry just didn’t know what was good for him. Oh, he’d threatened me with a restraining order, but that was just his way of playing about, I knew. And when he admitted to wanting to sleep with men…I thought it was _silly._  
  
At the time. I’ve learned better now. But he still could have warned me. Letting the tender-hearted young witch I was in 2003 walk into a scene like that with no warning was as good as using magic to trick a Muggle child. She’s not going to know that it’s _real_ , or how to respond if she accepts that it is. And I felt the same way. The only people I knew who slept with their own sex lived in the words of impolite novels. Did Harry have the right to make demented fantasies come true right in front of me? I still don’t think he did.  
  
So I went to his house one day—the house that he insisted on moving into after the last time we broke up, even though I had told him over and over again that he was welcome to share my flat—and knocked smartly on the door. He had a trim cottage in Hogsmeade at the time, and, looking at it, you just couldn’t _help_ imagining roses and ivy trailing around the door and children playing on the doorstep. And if you knew who lived there, then you had to imagine that all the children were green-eyed like their father.  
  
Those were innocent days. I can laugh, a little, at what a simple-minded fool I was. But I still want those children with green eyes; there was a part of my heart that not even what I saw that day could touch.  
  
I knocked again and again at the door, but no one responded. I became concerned. Harry hadn’t been in the field for very long as an Auror, and he was partnered with that repulsive Draco Malfoy. He could have come back from a mission still wounded and needing care, but refusing everyone in the Ministry and St. Mungo’s who told him to get it; such a _man_ , you know how they are. What if he was lying on the floor next to his kitchen cupboards with blood spreading around the lump on his head?  
  
What if he died because I was too busy standing outside his house and pretending I didn’t know the way around his wards? I had figured out a way around the wards as soon as he tried to shut me out, of course. And here I was, ready to have him _die_ just so he wouldn’t think I was impolite or too pushy!  
  
I aimed my wand at the wards and whispered the spells that would make them relax. Because, of course, the point was not to alarm him, or wake him up, if he was just sleeping. I wanted _silent_ entry to his house. It made me feel as though I was speaking to a piece of him that understood after all, and could really give me the communion I needed; he couldn’t object if he didn’t know he should.  
  
I know how strange that sounds now. But I don’t think anyone reading this—except one person—has ever lived intimately with the Savior of the Wizarding World like I have, and you don’t understand what it’s like when all his attention is fixed on you.  
  
I entered the house, calling his name softly. He wasn’t asleep on the couch like he sometimes was when he was too tired to get to bed, and he didn’t lie bleeding on the carpet, either. In fact, it was only after I toured three empty rooms and listened carefully that I learned where he must be: the loo. There was water splashing.  
  
I imagined him taking a shower and shivered.  
  
But when I came closer, I could hear voices. I admit, I got jealous when I heard them. Harry hadn’t had a girlfriend since he broke up with me, but we’d only broken up permanently last month. If he’d found someone that fast whom he felt comfortable enough to bring into the shower with him, then I was _angry._  
  
I didn’t bother knocking. There would have been no point. I just wanted to break in and embarrass him the way that he was embarrassing me at the moment, with flames burning me from the inside.  
  
I opened the door—  
  
And stopped, because while there was one person kneeling in the tub with head bowed and another standing above him, they weren’t taking a shower together. They _were_ naked, though. I reckon they couldn’t help it, since they were both surrounded by so much water, but it still hurt.  
  
And one person was Harry, and one was Draco Malfoy.  
  
Malfoy was his partner at the time. And _no more than that_ , I would have sworn. After all, Harry had never talked about wanting to date _him._  
  
But there was Malfoy, with his muscles twitching uncontrollably—something had obviously happened to him—and his arms limp at his sides, but still hissing his unpleasantries while Harry’s hands worked shampoo into his hair.  
  
“I could do this for _myself_ , Potter. No reason that you have to be concerned. If you had just taken me back to the Manor when I asked—“  
  
“Yes,” Harry said crossly, his fingers moving with strong, regular motions that I remembered from the days when he used to do it for me, “and you scold your house-elves so strongly that they won’t approach you if you tell them not to, even if you _need_ the help. Prat.” But his voice had a terrible weight of tenderness underneath the surface, and he pushed his fingers sideways in a motion that made Malfoy gasp and arch his back.  
  
“I still didn’t ask you, fucker,” he muttered when he recovered.  
  
“Ah, good,” Harry said, and scooped up a handful of water which he promptly poured over the top of Malfoy’s head, as if he’d done this all the time. “I hadn’t heard _that_ one in some time. Will you call me a sodding prat next? Or a bloody wanker who should have been drowned at birth? I think I’m fondest of that one.”  
  
“Where did you—did you learn—“ Malfoy gasped again, tilting his head back. His eyes were blank and worshipful, and it was _wrong_ for them to look that way whilst Harry was touching him. And then he seemed to become conscious of my presence—I reckon the colder air from the open door was too sharp for his sensitive, pampered skin—and turned his head to stare at me.  
  
Harry twisted around a moment later. But instead of flushing when he saw me, in embarrassment or guilt, he just blinked. “Ginny?” he asked, as if he doubted I were real because the sight of me was so unexpected. “What are you doing here?”  
  
I shook my head. There were no words. Maybe I should have listened to him when he said that he wanted to sleep with men, but there had never been any _signs_ of it—  
  
Malfoy smirked at me and managed to lift a shaky arm, curving it around the back of Harry’s knees and tugging him nearer. Harry’s cock was just a few inches from his mouth, and Malfoy licked his lips ostentatiously. “I think Weasley here has some unfulfilled fantasies, Harry,” he murmured huskily. “Should we indulge her? Since you seem to think that I can’t be left alone for a minute, and you _are_ interested?”  
  
And Harry was hardening, now. And he couldn’t even look embarrassed about that. He looked enchanted. “Draco—“  
  
He _groaned_ the name. Does it surprise you that I fled with tears running down my face and choking my throat?  
  
That was when I gave up all hopes of getting back together with him. And, of course, everyone knows the results. He and that prig Malfoy are still together, and living quite happily, by all accounts, because Harry spoils him shamelessly.  
  
But maybe it didn’t have to be that way. Maybe I could have won Harry back for all my fellow witches if I’d just got there half-an-hour earlier on that particular day, when he was in the mood to bathe someone.  
  
I suppose we’ll never know, now.  
  
*  
  
 ** _HARRY POTTER AND THE SECRET FETISH?_**  
  
By: Rita Skeeter, writing for _Gossip’s Gladrag_  
  
And in the _spirit_ of writing about the rich and powerful in terms of their less admirable traits, let’s have a story about the Savior of the Wizarding World, yes? Only this time, he’s not rescuing kittens or making girls sigh with a display of his dazzling heroics. He was last seen, in fact, staggering up a street in Muggle London, at _two in the afternoon_ , with his arm around a young man in a _jester costume._  
  
Yes, that’s right, Dear Readers. It seems that it might not be safe to say, “Pull the other one, it’s got bells on,” to Harry Potter.  
  
Because said jester costume was absolutely _covered_ in bells, you see, and they rang with sad merriment as Mr. Potter hurried his unfortunate date along. When this reporter attempted to stop him and ask about a few things—including the one I’m sure we’d all like to know—Mr. Potter attempted to explain away his conquest as his partner, Auror Draco Malfoy, who had been struck with lightning and needed to be got to treatment and then to a bath as soon as possible. A bath I could certainly believe, given the smell.  
  
None of that, I pointed out with extreme delicacy, explained the jester costume.  
  
Mr. Potter then tried to spin me a bizarre tale of the jester costume being the only clothing available after Mr. Malfoy’s clothes were incinerated by the blast of lightning. And when I asked why the jester costume was present at all, Mr. Malfoy—if it was he, and not some other young man incredibly well made up to answer another of Mr. Potter’s, ahem, more _personal_ preferences—lifted his head and said, “It’s too long a story to tell right now, Harry, and you know that Kingsley will be unhappy if you tell it to _this_ woman anyway.”  
  
He gave me quite the evil eye, as if he were so much more respectable than I was that it hurt him to be in my presence.  
  
So much for the young man in the jester costume. But I will listen for forthcoming details about this fascinating story, as I am sure the rest of you will. If we listen hard, perhaps we may even be able to hear bells ringing forlornly in the distance…  
  
*  
  
 _To_ : Kingsley Shacklebolt, Head, Auror Office  
 _From_ : Harry Potter, Auror  
Draco Malfoy, Auror (partner, incapacitated)  
  
 _Subject_ : Formal Report on the Death of the Kent Killer  
  
Sir,  
  
Auror Malfoy and I cornered the Kent Killer on the streets of Muggle London this past weekend. I am sure you will want an explanation as to why we were looking for him there instead of in the backroads of Kent. I can only say, sir, that it was an intuition, and when you have survived for as long as I have on the results of intuition, then you learn not to argue with what your gut tells you.  
  
Auror Malfoy and I arrived when the Killer was still gearing up for his bizarre necromantic ritual, and had not yet killed his victim, a Muggle boy who looked about sixteen. Auror Malfoy severed the ropes binding him with a Cutting Curse, and the boy ran away without looking back. I am certain that, though he reported his adventures in faithful detail, no Muggles will have believed him, with the drugs the Killer gave him circulating in his blood. Muggles have never yet learned that someone can be on drugs and see the _truth._  
  
The Killer turned to face us, smiling. As expected, he had clad himself in a jester costume, complete with silver and golden bells, and carried a round ball of green crystal in his right hand. In the other was a sword. That detail had never appeared in any of his other crimes—he must have been about to escalate his attempts to force his deceased brother back to the living world with fresh blood, so that he could kill him again ( _see_ attachment, ‘The Kent Killer Announces His Intentions to Britain’)—and it made me hesitate. I’m afraid that that was responsible for what happened next, making me, in turn, ultimately responsible for my partner’s injury.  
  
The Killer aimed his sword at us. It was a sturdy blade, with the blue patterns characteristic of folded Damascus steel, and silver inlay on the hilt. I hope this is sufficient to identify it as a magical object, since it was unfortunately destroyed in the ensuing confrontation.  
  
Because I was distracted, the Killer struck at my partner first. (I am sure that Auror Malfoy will tell you all about this in his own report, when he feels well enough to write it). The sword unleashed a bolt of lightning. I have never seen anything like that and hope never to see it again. It knocked me off my feet and singed my eyebrows and filled my lungs with the scent of electricity. When I fought my way back to my feet, though, I saw it had done far worse to Auror Malfoy. He was lying on the ground with a hole burned in his robes, twitching spasmodically as the energy played through his body. I didn’t think he was alive, at first.  
  
The next few minutes are something of a blur, sir. I do remember casting a spell that melted the sword in the Killer’s hand away to less than slag, and I remember smashing that green crystal he claimed he could use to call the dead. And then I was fighting him close, and he was trying to get my wand away from me, and the only thing I could think about was that I’d been careless on a watch where partners were always supposed to protect each other and it had got my partner killed.  
  
I screamed into his face. I remember that part. I kneed him in the groin, and that was what finally took the confidence, and the blood, away from his face. I stepped away from him and lifted my wand.  
  
From what Auror Malfoy and I could determine when we returned to the body, I had cast a combination of the Cutting Curse and Salazar’s Replication Jinx. There were so many cuts in the Killer’s skin that he must have been entirely drained of blood in two minutes. I am ready to answer questions about my heinous killing of an—at that time—unarmed suspect and accept suspension with pay or whatever punishment you deem necessary, sir.  
  
At the time, however, I was more occupied with gathering up Auror Malfoy. As his clothes had been incinerated in the lightning blast, I clothed him in the only rags then available, the jester costume. I don’t remember taking it off the Killer or cleaning it of blood. I can only assume that I must have done that. Auror Malfoy refused my robes, he said, on the account of finding them in “very bad [word omitted] taste.”  
  
We did meet one person before we could get into an isolated area that would allow Apparition, with results that I’m sure you already know of, sir, if you read any newspaper in Britain.  
  
The Healers were able to determine that Auror Malfoy had a number of superficial burns and some minor problems with his muscles. Both were taken care of before they offered to bathe him, but he insisted on being taken out of hospital and back to my house, where he has recuperated before. I leave it up to his report to give any details that he feels have been left out. I also swear that every word in this report is true, sir, and that I am willing to testify to that truth under Veritaserum.  
  
*  
  
“I don’t think—Kingsley believed—half of what was in—your report,” Draco gasped.  
  
“Doesn’t matter if he did or not,” Harry said, and thrust a little too enthusiastically; Draco, who had his back against the wall and his legs clasped around Harry’s waist, lost his grip on the door behind him and started to slip. Harry hastily adjusted his position, and Draco gave a long, low moan of satisfaction as that resulted in some pleasurable consequence for him. Or maybe it was more of a purr. Harry had never known people could purr and moan at the same time, but then, he had never known that people would rather wear a sufficiently sliced jester’s costume just barely cleansed of bloodstains than his own robes, either.  
  
“You survived,” Harry whispered, as he paused a moment to rest, which caused Draco to open his eyes and regard him grumpily. “I survived. _That’s_ the only thing that matters.” He pushed again, and Draco’s eyes opened so wide that Harry had to stifle triumphant laughter.  
  
“And what about Weasley?” Draco asked, when he had a moment to breathe. “Do you think you’ll still get along with her family after this?”  
  
“They’ll come—around,” Harry said.  
  
“Interesting choice of words.”  
  
“Isn’t it?” Harry’s hand found its way around Draco’s cock just then, and Draco rolled his head back against the wall in absolute luxury as he orgasmed, shooting a stream of come all over Harry’s stomach. That, even more than the clenching of his muscles, brought Harry off a moment later, trying, unsuccessfully, to keep his groan behind his teeth.  
  
In the pause, he did sink to the floor, and let Draco lie on top of him. He expected a sarcastic comment on his endurance, but Draco was still getting his breath back.  
  
“You know,” Draco said at last, “Skeeter was right about _one_ thing.”  
  
“What’s that?” Harry eyed the top of his head cautiously.  
  
“A jester’s costume can be quite arousing, when treated in the right way.”  
  
And that was when Harry made the rule that they would not talk about the bizarre incident, ever.  
  
Or at least for years.  
  
Or at least until the next time Draco needed a good laugh and looked at Harry with those soft gray eyes wide and pleading the way he did.


End file.
